


Afraid of Tomorrow

by Ange_de_la_Mort



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 17:38:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14289954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ange_de_la_Mort/pseuds/Ange_de_la_Mort
Summary: - "Once upon a time, there was a young man who desperately wanted to kill himself."- "That's a shitty story."- "Too bad, it's the only one I have."





	Afraid of Tomorrow

_This must be what being an alcoholic feels like_ , he sometimes thinks while staring at the bottom drawer of his desk as if a snake was hiding inside, one that could immediately lunge at him should he set it free. As if he'd caged a wild, venomous animal, one he was unable to stop thinking about, to check back if it was still where he had seen it five seconds ago.

Too bad that he himself is this animal, too bad that his own thoughts are the poison.

_It's gotten better,_ he sometimes tells himself when he gets to close his eyes at night to catch some undeserved sleep. A few hours here and there. Nothing much. But sometimes, he accomplishes to stray his thoughts away from the screams and the hatred and his very own rage. _It's gotten better,_ he tells himself, which doesn't help at all, because it serves to bring only every single of these thoughts and memories back to him, destroying all his hard work of trying not to think at all, because now he cannot _stop_ thinking.

This is what being an alcoholic feels like when the thought of a bottle is just dangling at the rims of his mind until he pushes it away, each and every thought of the bottle, of alcohol itself. It works, for a while, and he can even function, for a while. But inevitably, he will think of something to drink, maybe water, maybe just some other kind of liquid. And liquid is so close to liquor. And then the bottle is back in his mind, cheering him on to just grab it, empty it, swallow it all and cherish the way it will kill him, one sip at a time.

At least alcohol would have the decency to kill him slowly. Let him enjoy the taste.

The thing he has hidden in his desk drawer is not this kind. Not at all.

But whenever Roy tries not to think of it, his mind starts to itch. It's nothing more but a small spot somewhere in his brain that he cannot reach, an itch that can never be scratched, a memory that is burned into his very being.  
He has tasted it. Steel and metal and oil and the very feeling of despair scraping over his teeth. He has no difficulty remembering the metal on his tongue, heavy and unrelenting and so much harder than anything else he has had in his mouth.

Whenever he remembers, he grits his teeth until they hurt, just to make sure that he is _here and now_ and not _back then_ , to banish all memories and taste, to cast out the feeling of the gun that has spread his lips wide enough to hurt, has hit the back of his throat until he's almost choked on it. Whenever he remembers, his eyes glance down to this one drawer. Just to make sure – one more time, again, always – that it's still locked.

He doesn't keep it at home. Not anymore. Not since Hughes visited him this one time, because he knows that whenever Hughes comes over now – sometimes planned, sometimes not, sometimes even invited, often with wine and whiskey and pie, always meant as a gesture of kindness, but never anything more than a compliance visit, just so that he can check Roy's still there, if he's still alive or if Hughes has to order someone to scrub his brains off the floor –, he's searching for the gun. He is not obvious about it, at least Hughes thinks he isn't, but Roy knows better. He knows the way Hughes lets his gaze wander through Roy's tiny apartment, the way he opens and closes drawers and closets while pretending to help Roy through his “dissolute bachelor lifestyle phase”.

… Hughes always manages to laugh when he says that, and Roy does so as well, because they both know Hughes would love to shove a wife at him, one that would watch over and train him like a dog, keeping track of him not losing his sanity and self-control - _I'm not playing with my gun, darling, I'm just cleaning it, really, don't worry, it only has to be done one more time and then never again, I promise._

He hates Hughes for it sometimes.

And then he hates himself for absorbing Hughes' relieved gaze and his thin, content – _proud_ \- smile like a dog whose master is about to give him a treat for playing nice.

He hates himself because he cannot stop thinking about how _easy_ it would be to simply end it all. And about how goddamn disappointed Hughes would be.

He hates himself for not putting a stop on the whole thing as soon as he catches Hughes rummaging through his belongings for the first time. Or the second time. He hates that is has become sort of a routine.

It takes months for him to speak up. He scoffs quietly and clutches the half-emptied glass of liquor in his hand while looking at Hughes out of tired eyes, observing his every movement.

The whole farce always plays out the very same way: Hughes smiles at him and puts down his own glass on the kitchen table, then stretches, arms up in the air, while faking a yawn. He scratches the back of his neck and claims to need to visit a place he cannot name further because he's in the middle of unlearning every single word that isn't completely innocent so that Elicia has no chance of hearing and repeating a word she isn't supposed to. After that, he leaves the room, and Roy can hear the quiet sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor, can hear through far too thin walls how drawers are opened and closed again, how Hughes carefully shoves the books in his shelves aside, only to put them back immediately. He can hear Hughes stretching out on his bedroom floor to take a look underneath his bed.

Roy knows every little thing about this strange kind-of routine, because he has watched him go through every of these steps.

He hates him for thinking that this is necessary.

And he hates himself for not having given him any reason to believe otherwise.

That's why he puts his glass down for the very first time ever since this has started to lean back in his chair, just as Hughes is slowly getting up. "It's not here," he says quietly, and when Hughes freezes in the middle of his movements, he says it again: "It's not here. You can stop looking for it."

Should he be surprised, then Hughes doesn't show it, but instead only offers him a wide smile. One of those that says 'I am a giant idiot and completely harmless, pay me no mind.' One of those that make him so dangerous, so good at his job.

Roy hates him for that smile, because he has fallen for it more than once. He fell for it _hard_ all these years ago, and that smile turned everything that should have been _completely harmless_ between the two of them into something completely complicated. It made the jump from _friend_ to _best friend_ to _boyfriend_ so incredibly easy.

The jump back to being _best friends_ , though … well. Whatever. That thought isn't important. Not right now.

Important is that Hughes looks at him _like this_ , and Roy wants to strangle him for it. "Don't look at me like that," he says, digging his nails into the edge of the table. "Just don't. Don't pretend I'm stupid. I'm not. And you aren't, either. You know what I'm talking about."

"Do I?" is all Hughes has to say. "I'm afraid I have no idea."

"You want me to spell it out to you, right? You want me to tell you that I have stopped keeping the damn gun in my home ever since you've seen it that one time?"

Hughes' face softens. His glasses reflect the dim light in the room as he sits back down and smiles at him. A real smile, this time, one that shows Roy Hughes is taking him seriously for once. Which is … about time, actually. "Yeah. Yeah, that's just what I want to hear, Roy. I'm-"

"If you want to tell me that you're _proud_ of me, I'm gonna smash your face in with this bottle."

He laughs. He really has the _nerve_ to laugh at that, as if they were just telling each other bedtime stories, old and almost forgotten anecdotes one would tell their friends. "I actually wanted to say that I'm curious where you keep it now.“ He leans closer, just a little, and rests his elbows on the table, his chin on his folded hands. The smile doesn't disappear. "I know you wouldn't throw it away, that'd be too dangerous because you never know who might find it, and you wouldn't want a murderer on the rampage with _your_ gun."

"I-"

"No, that's not you. You wouldn't throw it away, but you also wouldn't give it back, wouldn't return it to the armory because it's _yours_ and you want to keep your belongings close to you. It makes you stay in control."

"Why are you-"

"And you _need_ to stay in control, don't you, Roy? That's why-"

" _Shut up!_ " he hisses. His fingers are twitching, his jaw is tight. "It's in my office. In the bottom drawer of my desk. It's locked away. Are you _happy_ now?"

Hughes beams at him, just the way he beams at his daughter whenever she has learned a new word. Just the way one would look at a dog that has managed to perform a new trick. "Yeah."

"I hate you when you're like that," Roy mutters and refills his glass with shaking hands, in the need of more of this cheap brand of whiskey that Hughes has bought.

"Like what? Concerned? Glad you're not doing anything stupid?"

"When you pretend you know everything about me."

"I'm with the investigations team, Roy, it's my job to know everything about everybody."

"Whatever." He takes a sip. And another one.

"You're just angry that you're so easy to read."

"I'm just angry because you're a fucking asshole."

Hughes clicks his tongue and leans back, crossing his arms behind his head. "If I were an asshole, I'd ask you where you keep the key to that drawer."

"And I'd tell you that it's none of your business."

"Ah, yes, but then I'd tell you that I already know you don't keep it in the office _or_ on your person. You're not a spontaneous man, Roy, and if you really were to use it, you'd think about it the whole time when you went to bed. It would be the last thing on your mind when you fell asleep and the first thought when you woke up. You'd grab it from wherever it's hidden and you'd go to Central Command with the simple and pure intention to blow your brains-"

"Can you _stop_ being so nonchalant about that?" He brings the glass down with more force than necessary, doesn't even really notice when some of the amber liquor splashes over the rim and drips down his fingers. With a shudder, he cards his hands through his hair. Of course Hughes is right. Of course that's the exact way it would be. Of course they both know what makes Roy tick, and of course Roy hates him for it. "Why do you know me so well?"

"Because I'm-"

"Don't say it's because you're with Investigations."

Hughes smiles and tilts his head to one side, then simply shrugs his shoulders. "It's because I'm your best friend."

"..." Roy keeps silent for a moment, watching him before having to look away. "I guess."

"And as your best friend, I demand to know when and where this is happening." Hughes takes his thin notebook out of the pocket of his uniform jacket and opens it. Of course a picture of the happy family is tucked between the pages (Roy feels sick at the sight of happy little Elicia smiling while they're talking about this, but he is almost sure that this is exactly the way Hughes wants him to feel, uncomfortable and uneasy until his mind links all thoughts of suicide to the feeling of unease) "Am I invited? Of course I am. I just gotta check my schedule first." He turns a page, then another one, frowning a little while loudly proclaiming his thoughts. "Let's see, how about next Friday? I'm free between sixteen and eighteen hundred hours. Should I bring snacks?"

This is ridiculous. It's so ridiculous that Roy actually feels a smile force its way onto his lips. "Now you're just trying to rile me up."

Hughes raises his head a little, just enough to let Roy see the grin on his lips. "Of course I am, that's my job as your best friend!" Then he grows serious again and lets out a small sigh, closes the notebook and with it all thoughts of what little Elicia would say if her uncle Roy suddenly disappeared forever. "I really don't want you to do anything stupid, Roy."

"I won't."

"You're thinking of killing yourself, man."

"Yes. But that is not a stupid plan. It's the logical conclusion of everything we're working for."

"Sounds pretty stupid to me," Hughes grumbles and refills his own glass. The bottle will be empty soon. And as soon as that happens, their evening together will be over. That is something they both know. Because then, Hughes will have his good deed for the day and make his way back to his home, where wife and family and a warm bed all wait for him while Roy will be left alone with nothing more than his own thoughts.

Truth to be told, Roy doesn't want him to leave. And yes, he does hate him for that as well.

"Listen," Hughes says quietly, his voice firm. His hand twitches a little, almost as if he wants to rest it on top of Roy's. He doesn't. Instead, he looks at his fingers for a few seconds as if berating himself for this tiny display of affection. “Listen," he starts anew. "I support you. I always have. But I can't let you do that. I really want that key, Roy."

"I know." He smiles a bit, really nothing more than a slight twitch of the corners of his mouth. "I'm not going to hand it over."

"Really." It's not a question. It's a challenge, because now Hughes is smiling, too. His eyes are bright, shining with something more than merely the reflection of the candle between them. "I could make you."

"Oh, could you?"

"Yeah."

Roy leans forward, looking directly into his eyes. He's still smiling. They both are. Hughes is close enough for them to almost kiss if only the table wasn't in the way. If only Hughes could pull himself together and come a littler closer. They haven't been that close in a while. Not since the day of Elicia's birth.

He would love to hate Hughes for _that_ , too, but he can't. He cannot hold a grudge against Hughes for deciding to choose his family over him. Instead, Roy hates himself for not having fought harder. "Do your _worst_."

Should he have expected Hughes to be taken aback, to be forced to think about _that_ a little, then he has been undoubtedly wrong, because the smile on Hughes's lips just gets broader and he, too, leans over that damn table until he is close enough for Roy to almost taste his breath, this familiar taste of smoke and alcohol and mint.

However, Hughes does not close the gap between them.

Instead, he all but whispers against Roy's lips: "I'm gonna tell Hawkeye."

Roy flinches as if struck. As if Hughes had just punched him in the face. He retreats and grits his teeth, shakes his head about both of them. For these small seconds, he has actually _dared_ to hope. Then he gathers all of his courage to look him straight in the eye. "She already knows."

"Sure she does."

"She fully supports me. Just like you did once."

Hughes rolls his eyes. "I still do, you idiot, we've just talked about that." He points one judging finger at Roy, would most likely poke him in the chest if the table wasn't standing between them. "But I told you, once, that you shouldn't lie to me."

"I'm not-"

"You haven't told her a single thing."

"That's-"

"She has no idea that you're hiding a fucking gun in your desk, one that has written your name on every bullet inside."

Roy crosses his arms in front of his chest. "How would you know?" he asks like a stubborn brat whose parents have caught it lying. … well. Maybe having a child has made Hughes an even better observer. Or maybe Roy has only gotten worse at lying.

He really hopes it's the first option.

Hughes pushes his glasses back onto the bridge if his nose and takes a deep breath, and Roy already regrets having said anything at all, because he knows all the signs of getting some kind of shovel talk, and he really could stand not to be lectured today. "You haven't told her, because, to her, you're still Roy, the keeper of secrets, the one to lead us out of this mess like a damn shepard. Only you're not leading us to some promised land but to our deaths." He shrugs his shoulders "You know that we will follow you and we both know that you can't do any of that if you kill yourself before you've reached the top, and _I_ know that I want the damn key, Roy, because you need someone to push you further even though all you want to do is take yourself down."

"You are ... " Right. He's right. Of course he is. "You are being overly dramatic," he says instead and swallows around a lump in his throat. His mouth is awfully dry all of a sudden.

"But I'm not wrong, am I?"

Roy wets his dry lips with his tongue and breathes in deeply. "I'm not going to give you the key."

Hughes chuckles softly, as if he hasn't expected anything else. "Well, then I have no choice but to come over every so often to search for it."

Roy wants to ask him if that's supposed to be a threat or a promise. Wants to ask him if it isn't easier to just go to his office and pry his desk open to steal the gun. He wants to ask him so many things, but – this very moment – he understands for the first time in years that Maes Hughes is as much looking for excuses to visit him as Roy is looking for excuses to keep him by his side. The realization makes it hard to breathe.

With shaking fingers he brings his glass up to his lips and empties it in one long gulp to wet his dry lips and throat, to drown every single stupid word that could come to mind before it even gets a chance to tumble over his lips. It takes him a second, maybe even two, until he finds the other words, the ones he hopes are the right ones.

Then he says: "Maybe ... maybe you should stay. For the night. Every so often. To look for the key while I'm asleep."

Maes' bright smile is all the answer he needs.

__

Things Roy has been expecting: Maes just standing in front of his door one lonely evening, knocking for hours and refusing to go home. Him behaving like a small puppy that bumps its head against the door until someone lets it in. Him being just that subtly obtrusive that Roy can't even be annoyed with him when he empties Roy's storage and steals the blankets at night.

Things Roy has not been expecting: All of that happening the very next evening already. Maes simply struts alongside Roy as soon as the heavy doors of Central Command have closed behind him. It happens quickly, almost too quickly for Roy to understand what the hell just has happened. Maes simply appeared out of nowhere, just the way he does sometimes, as if he had been waiting next to the front door for the last two hours. Then he greets Roy with a smile and walks next to him,  while Roy spends the next ten minutes furiously thinking of an excuse to lie at him about being tired and annoyed and not actually wanting to have Maes spend even the littlest bit of time with him.

It wouldn't have worked anyway. After all, it has been Roy himself who's brought up the idea of Maes staying at his place. Now he has to live with the consequences. With _the_ consequence. Which is called: Maes Hughes, sitting on his sofa. In his pyjamas.

"I can't believe you brought your pyjamas," Roy says in mock disgust as Maes unpacks his bag to commit the crime of insulting his eyes by bringing these very pyjamas into his house. "And I can't believe how ugly they are."

Because they are. Really. Objectively. Not because they don't somehow _work_ for Maes, because Maes Hughes could wear a damn potato bag while still being handsome – which is, in itself, a very severe crime –, but because Roy simply cannot comprehend the combination of pink fabric and yellow chicklets.

"You're just jealous that they look good on me," Maes states with a grin.

"I haven't seen them on you yet. And I actually don't want to. I'm inclined to jump out of my bedroom window and try to break my neck just so that my eyes can be spared."

Maes hesitated for a bit, stopping in the middle of his movements. He quietly clears his throat and looks at Roy with a smile they both know is fake. "So you're allowed to make jokes about that matter but I'm not?"

"Exactly." Roy shrugs his shoulders and rubs the back of neck, slowly gets rid of his uniform jacket in order to first hang it on a coat hanger and to then hang _that_ on a hook next to the door. "And if I really have to look at you in this thing, then I hope you brought lots of whiskey."

"Not today", Maes says cheerfully.

Roy scoffs. "Too bad," he mutters with a small smile. "It's bad enough that I have to be sober while dealing with you at work."

"Don't be like that, we both know you love having me around." Maes winks at him, and before Roy can even think of an answer, he's already disappeared in the bathroom to get changed. The pink fabric flutters around him like a bad omen.

For a few long seconds Roy keeps staring at the closed door, looks at it as if it were some really annoying piece of paperwork. Then, with a sigh on his lips, he turns around and crosses the room to go to his kitchen in order to make tea for the both of them. Simply because he to do anything right now to distract him from a certain half-naked idiot in the next room. Simply because he might not be a good host, but he doesn't intentionally want to be a bad one. Simply because he has to keep his hands busy.

"That's not it," he says to nobody in particular. "I guess I just love you."

___

When Maes returns from the bathroom just a few minutes later, he carelessly stuffs his uniform into his bag. Roy frowns at this, imagining how wrinkled the fabric must be and wonders if other people would think Maes has been somewhere, somewhere that wasn't his home - and what would the people say? The rumor mill in Central command is always running and Roy doesn't even want to think about what would happen if the first whispers about "cheating" and "he's probably avoiding his wife" would come up. He hastily gets up from the little couch he's gotten halfway comfortable on - or rather, where he's tried to sit down in a way that doesn't look too comfortable or inviting or unnatural in any way, shape or form, which only resulted in him feeling like he's dislocated half his spine as well as his left kneecap - and unpacks Maes' uniform to fold it neatly and-

"What are you doing?"

"I'm making sure you won't be the laughingstock of Central Command tomorrow."

"You're folding my uniform."

"Yes, evidently, thank you for your observation."

Even if he's got his back turned to him, he can hear the smile in Maes' voice. He knows Maes is looking at him, fondly and amused at the same time. He knows it, because that's the same look Maes has always given him back then whenever Roy did something Maes perceived as too  nitpicky.

He loved that look back then. Now, it just hurts.

In Roy's mind, the itch is back, the ever-so-often present urge to just leave the past behind and end it all right here and now. It's not the first time that thinking about Maes Hughes and their shared past has brought the urge back, but it's the first time in a while. He hates both of them, right now.

It seems like his mental distress is obvious, visible, because even though Roy has always thought himself to be good at hiding his thoughts and feelings, Maes is suddenly close to him, behind him, putting his hands on Roy's, forcing them down until they come to rest on the neatly folded fabric that still feels warm under his fingertips, just as warm as Maes' hands do. "Your hands are shaking."

Breathe. Just ... just breathe. Once. And again. Ignore that he's as close as he hasn't been in almost five years.

"I told you it's hard to deal with you when I'm sober."

Maes scoffs a little at him and shakes his head. Roy can hear his clothes rustle. "I know you like to drown your thoughts and problems in cheap liquor, but even you aren't that much of an addict."

"Maybe things have changed when you weren't looking."

"I'm always looking at you, Roy."

He swallows around the lump in his throat, lowering his gaze, letting it drift over their hands, he wants to say something, something biting, full of sarcasm and exhaustion. But it's hard for him to find the right words - how should he, when a goddamn yellow chick stares up from the pajama right in his direction?

Slowly Roy slips out of his grip and turns around to look at Maes in all of his … current hideousness. "I can't believe you can wear _that_ without Gracia wanting to divorce you."

This strange thing between them is over, and now Maes finally, finally stops looking at him like _this_. Instead he laughs, throwing his head back a bit. "You're an absolute bastard," he says and makes a throwaway gesture, still laughing. "And you're wrong. As you often are. Elicia loves everything about these and Gracia thinks they're charming."

"Yeah, charming in their ugliness maybe." For a short moment, he manages to keep a straight face, but then he shakes his head - about both of them, about the whole situation, about two grown men, one of which who looks like an overgrown child with a really, really bad taste. It's absurd. Unreal. He can't keep the laughter down his throat, a bubbly one, deep down from his stomach, a real one that leaves him with aching ribs and a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Come on," he says as soon as he's in control again. "I made tea. And later I'll look for a spare blanket so that you can hide this monstrosity underneath."

"I can help you looking. I bet it's in the same place as your key."

"Fuck you," Roy says quietly. But it's with a smile on his face.

__

Eventually it becomes their new routine, the thing with Maes and him. At first, he only comes over once a week to stay for the night. Then twice. By now, they've reached three visits a week. Three times a week Maes squeezes himself onto the small sofa to fall into something akin to a light sleep.

Sometimes, Roy watches him, watches how he rubs his eyes in the morning and rolls his shoulders, how he pulls a face when he rubs the aching spots on his lower back because the couch is way too small for a man like him. Roy has watched him at night, has watched how he curls up tighter, trying to pull his legs in to fit them under the blanket while trying not to fall off the damn thing and land on the hard wooden floor.

But still, Maes hasn't complained even once.

Roy, in turn, complains even more, even though he's usually not all that serious about it, he complains about Maes not bringing any alcohol on these nights (because it feels strange to talk to Maes about their lives when he's not inebriated. Because he feels like the nights when they laugh and drink together, when they are honest to each other are gone. Because he's too sober to talk about himself, his thoughts, his feelings) and they have to make due with the sparse contents of Roy's tea box (he always says he's going to not let Maes into his house if he runs out of tea. He doesn't tell him he secretly refills all his tea boxes every two weeks. He's almost sure Maes assumes that anyways), or about how Maes keeps him up at night because he's snoring (which is true. Sometimes. Elicia is so small and fragile that she always gets colds. And since Maes just can't stay away from his daughter more than one and a half inch, he constantly contracts them). Or about the fact that Maes isn't visiting him to sleep.

Maes raises his brows when Roy talks to him about that. "I'm not sleeping," he says and shakes his head at Roy even daring to propose such a thing. "I'm just pretending to be asleep. So that you never know when I will get up to loot through your belongings."

"You're not doing a very good job at that. I have seen you sleep like a child."

That makes him laugh a little, then take a sip of his tea. "Am I a cute child at least?"

"You wish." Roy crosses his legs and finds himself grinning. "Your mouth is always standing wide open. I guess I could use you as a waste basket and you wouldn't even notice."

"I'm just good at pretending."

Roy rolls his eyes and hides a laugh by drinking his tea. And by choking on it. And by coughing. (At least Maes has the decency to pat him on the back in worry.) "Sure you are. You're good at being horrible."

For a short moment, Maes just looks at him, thoughtfully, waiting. Then he says: "Then do tell me, soon-to-be Führer, what I can do to be better at my job?"

Ah. There it is. The moment he's been trying to avoid, but couldn't stand not mentioning. The moment he's scared of because he doesn't know if Maes is going to take him seriously or not. The moment when he has to be honest. Roy hesitates for a few seconds, traces the rim of his cup with a fingertip. "I ... I guess you shouldn't sleep on the sofa anymore."

Even if he's not turning his head towards him, he knows Maes is looking at him. By now he knows the feeling when Maes' eyes linger on him, stick to him. "Really?" Maes just says and stretches his legs, wiggling his sock-covered toes. "Where else should I sleep then?" he asks as if he didn't know the answer.

"... my bed is big enough."

"Mhh." Slowly, he puts his cup onto the sofa table and leans back, crossing his arms behind his head. "I guess it'd be easier if I was close to you. I'd notice you getting up and hiding the key somewhere else in the middle of the night."

"And maybe ... maybe you should hold me close to you."

"So you can't get up to hide your stuff at all?"

Roy forces himself to take a deep breath. And then he raises his head to look Maes in the eyes. "No. Just because I'd really like to be in your arms sometimes."

__

Roy tries to hate him. Or at least himself. But it's hard to be spiteful, hateful even, when the feeling of naked skin on naked skin is far too soothing, and not even the fact he's sore all over, sticky and sweaty, can suppress the overwhelming feeling of this kind of bliss he's been missing for so long. He's lying in the crook of Maes' arm, eyes closed. His hand is on Maes' chest and he can feel his heartbeat under his fingertips.

For the first time in a long while, he actually feels totally and completely at ease. With himself and the world at large.

It's not like he's suddenly cured, cured of his depression, his self-loathing and the desire to end it all. But it's nice to be able to forget all that for a few moments.

It's the first time in a long time that he wants to keep a moment and doesn't just hope that it's over soon.

They are quiet. Maes' chest is rising and falling with his regular breaths and if it wasn't for the hand in his hair, lazily toying with the strands, Roy would almost think Maes has fallen asleep.

Eventually, after a few minutes or maybe hours, Maes yawns a little and hums in satisfaction. "Hey. Hey, Roy?"

"Mhh?"

"Tell me a bedtime story."

Roy blinks. "What?" he asks, trying to sit up, to look Maes in the face while asking him if he's lost his mind.

But Maes holds him, just like this.

And maybe that's for the best.

"You heard me. Tell me a story."

Roy groans and rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says, and because he doesn't really know what else to say, he does it again: "Fine. It was a long time ago-"

"Oh, that's gonna be a good one!"

"Are you- are you even _capable_ of shutting up for five minutes?" He looks up and sighs a bit when he sees Maes' tired, loving smile. "It was _a long time ago,_ okay? And there ... there was a man. A young man, who desperately wanted to kill himself."

The hand in his hair comes to a sudden halt, and Roy can feel Maes take a deep breath.  "I was wrong, that one is a shitty story. I don't want to hear that one."

" _Well, too fucking bad_ , it's the only one I have." He actually counts on Maes saying something else. Something stupid. Or something incredibly sappy. Or maybe even something halfway charming to lighten the mood. But Maes keeps quiet, and so Roy has no excuse not to go on:

"He was ... a young man. Not a prince, like all young men are in fairy tales. He was a soldier. One who had committed many crimes. Crimes he'd been ordered to commit, but they were crimes nonetheless. He had taken many lives, and when he returned from war ... no, still back then, on the battlefield, he had sworn to himself that nobody would ever be forced to take another person's life."

"He doesn't need to be a prince to have a noble cause."

"Shut up, Maes."

"Sure, sir. Shutting up already." But the fingers are back in his hair, petting and caressing him gently and with care.

Roy feels a smile creep onto his lips and closes his eyes. Then he starts speaking again, quietly but firmly: „He had taken on too big a task, because he was nothing more than a simple soldier and the people around him were far more powerful than him. They failed to see what he had seen, failed to understand that war is wrong and horrible, and if they had seen and understood, then they ignored it. The soldier could have left everything behind him, could have left the military, but instead he had worked to become stronger and better, to rise up the ranks. Sometimes things went well, sometimes he really thought he would soon see a world where there were no more wars and all the murderers would find their just punishment. It … did include him, for even though he had only been a dog of the military, one who had to follow his orders, he was not better than them. Not at all.“

Maes hums quietly, his hand travels over the back of Roy's neck down to his shoulder. He squeezes it reassuringly, gently, as if Roy was glass and porcelain and could burst with every sudden touch, with every harsh word.

Roy sometimes wishes that was the case.

"The thought was chasing after the soldier and often caught up to him. Every night he saw the faces of the dead and one day, he decided to stop destiny in its tracks and bring back the souls of the victims. It hadn't been that easy. No one wakes up one day, snaps his fingers and says: 'Today I'll bring some dead people back!'. No, it was an emergency plan, because the soldier was also a coward. He hadn't been able to disobey his superiors back then and he hadn't been able to punish himself. He'd been thinking about it countless times, had been holding a gun to his head too many times to count while wishing he'd have the strength to end it all." Roy pauses, licks his dry lips. "He hadn't dared to trade his life for the lives of the others."

"But he made other plans."

"Yes. He had a friend standing by him during that time ... in one way or the other. And he was ashamed his friend had to see him fall like that. So he took the gun he wanted to use to take his life and locked it away, promising himself to only take it back out once his plan had reached completion and he could accept his punishment with a clear conscience."

"But it's not always this easy with good intentions."

"Will you stop interrupting me? You're worse than a little child!" With a tired smile, Roy rolls over on his back and crosses his arms behind his head, looking at Maes from the corners of his eyes. "Yes," he admits, "It wasn't always easy, because the soldier was still a coward. Often, whenever things were becoming too much, when the victories became sparse and the setbacks too much to bear, then he thought of ending everything prematurely. It was the last thing on his mind when he fell asleep and the first thought when he woke up."

Maes' lips are a thin line.

"He took the key to his weapon's prison which he'd hidden away in the crook of his mattress and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he went to work with the firm resolution to kill himself. To give himself over to the death he hadn't taken on the the battlefield. The key was resting heavily in his pocket and the weight reminded him of his sins and with every hour that passed, he grew more and more impatient. He wanted to wait until everyone had left the building, and then do it.

But he didn't. And can you imagine why?"

Maes is silent for a few long moments and then shakes his head. He looks like he doesn't want to say anything at all. "... I don't know. Because he was a coward? Is that the moral of your story?"

"No. No, I … no.“ Roy screws his eyes shut and tightens his jaw. "He didn't do it because someone knocked at his door. It was his friend, the one he'd been so ashamed in front of. He was carrying a bottle of wine and just invited himself over to drink with the soldier until both of them would be too tired to think clearly." Roy turns his head a little to look directly at Maes, to witness the shifting of gears in Maes' mind and how he slowly begins to understand.

Roy can see it in his eyes, in the tensed up corners of his mouth. "You want to tell me that all the times I dragged you out of your office late at night because I was thinking that you were working yourself to death … "

"... you saved my life without even knowing it."

He can see Maes swallow, can see his Adam's apple bob as he lets the words think in.

"And I think I'm ready to go on now. Until the very end. I think it's time you take the key with you. To look out for it so I don't do anything stupid until I have the right to do so."

He looks at Maes for another long moment and then rolls over onto his side, turning his back to him so he can get up and reach under his mattress, but Maes puts his arms around him, makes Roy let out a confused noise as Maes pulls him against his chest, buries his nose in his hair. Roy can feel him swallow, can feel his fingers shake and he's not sure if Maes is trying to suppress the tears, tears of which Roy has shed too many for himself.

"You don't need to," Maes murmurs into his hair. "You can keep it."

"What? Why?" That doesn't make any sense at all. "But you wanted- the whole time you wanted-"

"If you're ... if you're strong enough to tell me this, then you're strong enough to knock on my office door or to come over and visit me at home before you do anything you shouldn't." Maes presses a kiss to his temple, only holds him closer. "I know you, Roy. I know I can trust you. And you should know that you can still hand it over when when you can't trust yourself anymore."

Roy keeps silent for a few seconds, unsure of how to react to this weird kind of compliment. "Thank you," is all that he finally says before he turns in the embrace to kiss Maes on the lips.

__

It's become their own secret routine. One that they manage to follow for several months. It's a long time they spend with each other, tired and exhausted, angry and frustrated, or merely laughing and happy.

It's … incredibly nice.

At least as long as possible, because this routine, too, is not safe from change, and that means that, sooner or later, they are not able to meet up with each other. Not the way they've done before.

Still, Roy keeps visiting. Sometimes, when he finds the time to do so, or when he doesn't know who else to talk to. That's when he buys a bottle of cheap whiskey, the same brand that Maes has always gotten for them, and makes his way to the place where Maes is staying at right now.

When he's with him, the bottle is already open and Roy's steps are heavy and tired and every single one feels as if the weight of the world is resting on his shoulder.

But Maes is waiting for him, just like Maes has always been waiting for him. Not only in good times, but also in bad, whenever Roy couldn't see him do so, when he might not have wanted to see him do so. He has always waited for him, and Roy knows he always will.

When he sinks down onto the grass next to him, he isn't completely sure if his legs cannot support him anymore or if it's the weight in the pocket of his uniform jacket that pulls him down.

But that doesn't matter, because Maes has always told him that he could come over. And now he's here. And that's all that counts. Right?

It's quiet around them. All that Roy can hear is his own shaky breath, his blood rushing in his ears. "Hey," is how he tries to start this conversation. He raises the bottle at Maes in some kind of greeting. "... hey. I hope you don't mind that I started already. It's been a long day. It's been one of those days where I was waiting for you to come and pick me up in my office so that I don't do anything stupid. It's ... "  
He shakes his head and clears his throat. "No. Sorry, I didn't want to make it sound like I blame you for not saving my ass today. I'm not. Blaming you." What does he even want to say? How does he want to articulate himself so that Maes can understand him? So that Maes won't judge him? Maes has never seen him for the coward he is, and Roy is scared that he might change his mind now.

On the other hand, Maes has always been there for him. Why should it be different this time?  
Hastily, he brings the bottle to his lips to talke a sip in order to buy himself some time. He needs to think of what to say next. The liquor burns in his throat, or maybe it's just the tears he's trying to hold back, he cannot say it for sure anymore.

It's all become the same.

"I wanted to give you something," he finally says as soon as he can trust his voice again. "I need you to watch over it for a while. You ... you remember when you said I could give it to you when I didn't trust myself anymore?" He hangs his head. "Sorry. That's ... that was dumb. Of course you remember, you're the smart one. That's why you're with Investigations, right? That why you had everything figured out already, that's why you were always so far ahead of all of us."

_That's why you had to die. You were too fucking clever, weren't you?_

"I miss you," he whispers, and now the tears finally come, because for the first time since they've known each other, Maes is quiet, and will stay quiet forever. "I miss you so much."

And even so, he somehow feels alive for the first time in years, because now he has a task to focus on, one he has to complete at all cost. One he cannot run away from, not matter how much of a coward he is.

Roy hates himself. He hates that _this_ has had to happen for him to feel a purpose in life again.

With shaking fingers, he reaches into his pocket and curls his fingers around the small, unsuspicious key that fits in the lock of the bottom drawer of his desk at work. "I need you to take care of that," he says quietly. "But I'll take it back, you know? I'll ... I'll want it back. Later."

Carefully, he lays the key down in front of the tombstone, hides it between grass and plain soil so that it will never cease to be their own little secret.

And then he stays just a little longer. Because he has missed him. Because it would feel wrong to leave the bottle only half-emptied or to take it back with him.

Because there is nothing waiting for him at home except a cold bed and empty tea boxes.

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [Tumblr](ariodat.tumblr.com/post/172840478721/afraid-of-tomorrow) .


End file.
